The Forgotten
by LadyRune
Summary: Based in the Star Wars universe--the introduction to the Cortiaari


_**From the Annals of the Record Keeper, House of Reaven:**_

_**9th Moon, Green Season-**_The clouds above the Mountains were darker than usual this cycle, seeming to churn in a sea of black, lit by an unseen fire. Usha, the Seer, said our end would be coming with that sea of black. This frightened the children terribly, and the Harvest Festival ended earlier than usual. We were waiting for rain, but none ever came. The Seer is hardly ever wrong, but we account this to a warmer than normal season, and perhaps he is overtaxed. It was a small harvest, and the Warriors gladly gave up their tithings. The Growers were overjoyed, quickly forgetting the unsuccessful festival, and promised to allow any Warriors into their homes. The Armor Maker, however, assured them her Warriors would be well cared for by the Maker, as soon after, an influx of crops arrived from Tully. We have sent a messenger to thank them for their generosity, but no word yet from either the Tully Guild, or our messenger. 

_**10th Moon, Green Season-**_ Reaven prepares for the New Season, and still we have not heard from our messenger. Thunder has echoed relentlessly from the Rock Mountains, and the clouds seemed to spread, so that we can no longer see Tully's banners from our Do'na. Yet, we will not let this dampen our spirits. The High Priestess has been gathering the materials for the seasonal offering as her initiates toil tirelessly to weave her new robes. At the end of this Season, High Priestess Bashar will choose a new apprentice who will carry on when the Elder goes to the Maker. We eagerly await her decision, as such things are prosperous for the entire clan, and will surely bless our coming crops. Our clan head has also decided to dedicate his youngest son to his Path, as he will be reaching 10 in the coming seasons; There have been many discussions as of late to send all those new Warriors to Tully in the company of a journeyman Healer, but certainly, none would send the youngsters out before they have had time to see the Blue Season begin. 

_**1st Moon, Blue Season-**_ Soon after we greeted the New Season, Growers from across Cortiaari began trickling through our city gates. Many were missing limbs, or appeared to be badly burned. One Grower from just outside the limits of Tully said she saw the ground open up and the entire town sink into the earth. Others have similar stories: rivers of fire, ground shaking so severely that their temples split in half, and rain falling so thickly from the black clouds above that it burned their skin. Our Healers are overburdened, yet messengers to surrounding providences report the same phenomena, and cannot spare even their most inept learners. Our people are frightened, and turn to the Warriors for help. They cannot fight what they cannot see. Many Priestesses are holding that these acts are signs from the Maker that our warring ways anger Her. Yet, why of all times now, when war has been the way with the Cortiaari since our ancestors? We have not seen any other classes from the dying villages, not even the Priestesses that perform the Maker's will. If it was truly a sign, would She not spare even the most devout of Her followers? Even still, our Warriors prepare for a battle that seems inevitable. 

_**2nd Moon, Blue Season-**_ The ground quaked again today, swallowing up the province of Shenra, near the ocean. 400 people were there, all called to the Maker. These occurrences have been happening more frequently, taking two more towns since the beginning of the growing season. The resulting fires spread through the crops and the surrounding forest before they met the barrier of the Rock Mountains, so the survivors tell us. We cannot keep accepting these people, wandering in from the Mountains, burned from the stinging rain that always follows the fires. We haven't enough warriors to protect them all, not enough crops to feed them all, not enough medicine to tend to them all. We hear it is the same throughout the land, villages disappearing into the earth, entire islands erupting into fire. We all feel their passings through the touch of the Maker. We feel the end. 

_**4th Moon, Blue Season-**_ For a third of the cycle, the water of our spring has been boiling. We have no water to drink, and the smallest of the children have begun to die. The Armor Maker has fallen ill, as well. The Healer believes she is with child, but will not last long under such conditions. Beneath the carved spires of the Do'na, the ground around the walkways has cracked, spewing liquid rock and steam so hot, the metal has warped. If even the holiest of the Maker's houses is not immune, then are these events truly mirrors of Her wrath? We have lived as She commanded, but now we are all dying, and our world falls apart around us. Perhaps She drives us in another direction of Her choosing. The clan heads are convening here on the next cycle, as, with the fall of Shenra, Reaven is now the largest warrior caste. However, it is doubtful that the Armor Maker will recover in enough time to fulfill her duties, so the First Smith will lead the talks. May the Maker bless us, and let us put aside our differences long enough to decide the course for our people. 

_**4th Moon, Blue Season-**_ Thick, black smoke continues to choke us, even as we toil, the metal pulled from the our homes now bent around the rusted, yet functional hull of a monstrous beast we could never imagine would visit Cortiaari once again. There are ten of these metal beasts being rebuilt around our broken land, large enough for each of the remaining clans to have their own ship. A few decided to remain, convinced that the Maker would be angry for such lapses in Her law, but the others know we must escape our dying land. By the next Season, we will be ready to find a new home. The Armor Maker is still ill, but insists on helping along side the First and Second Smiths, while the Growers tend the fields, to have supplies ready for our journey. Our Warriors have been assigned to each ship, as have their children, and others assigned to ours, so that each will have equal representation. Even as we prepare, politics still plague us. We have decided none too early, as the cracks around our once beautiful Do'na have widened, filling the lower streets with the liquid fire that consumes all in its path. We only hope that we have no acted too late. 

_**(Not dated, scrawled hastily on crumpled parchment)-**_ May the Maker forgive us for our sins. May She bless those of us that still remain, as we spread the work of Her hand with the gifts She has provided. The Record Keeper could not escape to the ships, his aged body trampled beneath the feet of those avoiding the fires. As the Armor Maker, I carry on his tradition. We will all have to fill new positions left vacant by our losses, and we will start new traditions. We have had to give up old traditions, to embrace our new life as explorers, as our ancestors once did. This, I realized, as I watched our tiny planet die from the window of our ship, the wails of our brothers and sisters from other ships nearby coming from the ancient communication devices still active on these, our ancestors' own ships. Perhaps the Maker was preparing us for this day, preserving these beasts of technology in such condition as she did. Perhaps She told their Seer that one day, their children would be fleeing in much the same way they arrived. I doubt we will ever know the answers to our questions. Now, I only wish for us to survive. My child will be the first born in a new Time. May the Maker bless us, and make it a prosperous time. _– Shyla Na'Men, Armor Maker, House of Reaven_

_**(Undated, in a different hand, written on flaxen fabric)-**_ Let me tell you the true story of our people. As a Warrior, it is my duty to preserve us, at any costs: 

Long ago, explorers began to spread to the unknown reaches of space, sowing their seed across unknown worlds. They multiplied in numbers, slowly crawling across untouched landscapes, leaving behind their broken toys from another time, only to create new toys to help them. In the millions, billions, they devoured all that was in their path. All sentients soon caught his disease, this all-consuming want for knowledge, for things that were not theirs to want. 

There were some, however, that did not share this hunger. They did not contract the plague of civilization. Instead, they chose to isolate themselves from the scourge of humanity. In their collective minds, technology was the power of this great filth that had spread throughout space. Their children learned to rely on their instincts, rather than the tools of society. They were beyond other sentients, for they developed the skills that the Maker had provided. With their own hands and the fibrous shells of native arachnoids, they created armor to withstand the torturous conditions of their rapidly deteriorating home world. Using their extensive knowledge of herbology, their medicine men became the most skilled in the surrounding systems, granting their people extremely long lives and good health. Their miners found veins of rich ore, using it to erect massive towers, each intricately designed with their feats over modern society. They became a thriving civilization of their own right, creating sprawling cities. But their world was dying. In a last effort, they broke their vows, and sent their people to the corners of the Galaxy in the ships they had created from the remnants of their once prosperous cities. 

One by one, these ships came under siege, the people helpless against the powers of modern weapons. An entire civilization was lost, except for one, small passenger ship, which had escaped the ravages of modern space. These people, enraged at what they could only witness through the tiny voice of an ancient communications system, vowed to have their revenge against those of the technological world, those that did not have the knowledge of the Maker, and used her gifts for their own, greedy ends. 

Let this account of our suffering be the last entry in the Annals of the Record Keeper, the Maker rest him. The Cortiaari shall not be a people again until we hear the Maker's call to return home. _– Likasha Soul, Warrior Class, House of Reaven_


End file.
